About being in love
by SallaScaramouche
Summary: "Oh come on", Trace usually says, "haven't I told you two to love your mellifluousness for the time you two are alone? It's been like, what, five months now, haven't you had enough of each other by now?"


I've started to think that it's sort of my right to be the one sitting next to her at the breakfast table, and it's strange because usually I don't even eat anything in the morning. Mostly I just sit there and watch her face and maybe play with her hair just to annoy Trace, who thinks that although we are a super cute couple we should stop being so – what's that word he uses? – _mellifluous_. I know, it sounds terrible, and I swear I glare at him every freaking time he uses it (which means approximately every day), but Rose just sighs gives me a little kiss on the cheek, and I know she does that just to make him feel a little more awkward around us.

"Oh come on", Trace usually says, "haven't I told you two to leave your mellifluousness for the time you two are alone? It's been like, what, five months now, haven't you had enough of each other by now?"

But clearly Trace Nott knows nothing about being in love.

I know I'm only sixteen. I know I have been dting Rose for five months, two weeks, six days and half an hour, to be accurate. I know I'm a Malfoy and she's a Weasley. I know my father won't be too happy when he finds out and that her brother has never actually liked me. I know Rosie is my first real girlfriend and that I shouldn't be grinning madly to the word _girlfriend_. I know all these things and that I'm too young to be in love, or to know what being in love actually means, for that matter.

But I also know some other things, some things that no one else could never, ever understand. Like the way she reads her Daily Prophet every morning. First she looks at the front page, reads the headlines from the biggest to the smallest, checks all the pictures and gives a tiny little smile if there's one of her Uncle Harry – which is about twice a week. Then she takes a sip of her tea (green tea with two and a half spoonfuls of sugar and an unobtrusive glop of cream) and turns a page leaving a small wrinkle to the left side of the paper. She continues like that, reading and sipping her tea, and she takes a bite of her bread between pages seven and eight and leaves a teastain in the end of the page ten.

How do I know that? Because I watch her eat every morning. I'm not a stalker – I'm just a guy who adores his girlfriend so much it hurts, so much that sometimes I think if that's even normal anymore.

And there's more. I bet I can name at least twenty different shades of red in her gorgeous hair that Trace just simply calls _ginger_. It's not really that red after all, more like a fine combination of red and brown, nothing like her brother's alarming red head. And her eyes are something incomprehensible between hazel and chocolade, except for the times she gets furious and they become dark black. And seriously, you don't even want me to start talking about her lips, her pink, tempting, smooth lips that I could just watch all day long if I wasn't too eager to actually kiss them every now and then. Just like I do now.

I cup her cheek in my palm, making her cut reading an article about some witch that has started her own business by selling old magazines with new pictures (I'm not actually reading it, I just recognize the witch from the picture to be one of my mom's older sisters). I lean down to place my lips on hers, and _Merlin _does she know how to make a guy feel weak! Our lips move perfectly together, I can tell, and the feel of her smile against my mouth makes me grin stupidly.

I know Rose's brother is staring at me, I can almost feel it, and if looks could kill I'd be six feet under since my first date with Rose. I know Trace acts to vomit into his porridge, but he doesn't mean that, he's happy for me and Rose because he's our best friend. I know some of my stupid fellow-Slytherins are looking at us with disgusted impressions on their stupid pureblood-faces, because they think I'm ruining our house's reputation by dating a Weasley. I know all these things and a hell lot of more, but I don't give a shit because I love her.

I may be sixteen. I may have dated Rose for five months, two weeks, six days and forty-five minutes. I may be a Malfoy and she may be a Weasley. My father may not like this and her brother may hate me. But honestly I just don't care. I kiss her at the breakfast table if I want to, because she's my _girlfriend_ and the word makes me grin madly and I _love_ Rose Weasley from all my heart, no matter what other people say.


End file.
